


I love you and that's all I really know

by jaybirddraws (simplestorange)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Body Horror, Gen, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Nightmares, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic, also its my birthday!, during the nightmare, i listened to that dumbass tiktok remix of love story the whole time while i edited this, no arc. nothing happens. just me going wow i wish i had a gf, this has literally no plot its just rambling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25846447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplestorange/pseuds/jaybirddraws
Summary: “Welcome back,” the Exarch says sternly. “I heard you kept yourself busy in the faerie kingdom.”A’chago doesn’t register what he says for a few seconds, swaying and trying to make his brain recognize the person in front of him. “Exarch?” He asks dumbly.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 26
Kudos: 95





	I love you and that's all I really know

**Author's Note:**

> happy patch day everyone!!! :DDD

The everlasting light is hot but A’chago is shivering. He knows it’s sweltering, he just can’t _feel_ it. It feels like his bones are frozen. He can’t warm up even under the layers of leather and plating. 

“-And make sure that they don’t have any icky bugs on them, I just _hate_ bugs!” The pixie he’s talking to is decisive with their demands. They flit about in front of him, making it hard to concentrate. A’chago’s brain feels so foggy. He’s so tired. 

“Are you listening to me, mortal?”

A’chago stands straight up. “Yes, of course,” he lies. He and the Scions already lifted the pixies’ spell, but it’s only polite to continue to offer help where it’s needed. Even if it’s only to fetch a pixie’s favorite fruit. Besides, he’s learned that helping people tends to get them to help _him_ when he’s in a pinch. He’s not entirely altruistic. 

The bugs in the trees aren’t difficult enemies to dispatch, but A’chago still finds himself struggling. His arms feel heavy, his joints ache. His head pounds. The buzz of the insects is too loud. He just wants to lie down for a solid fourteen hours, but he’s got work to do. There’s still quite a few pixies vying for his attention, not to mention the Nu Mou that he promised to help when the Scions passed through their village a few days ago. 

He passes Thancred on his way to the Bookman’s Shelves. One of the pixies there promised to help him attune to Il Mheg’s aether currents if he decorated Urianger’s house. It strikes him as odd that Thancred spends so much time there lately. Maybe he’s decorating too? 

“Twelve, you look awful,” Thancred says. “Take a break, why don’t you? The last thing we need is to scrape you off the path when you inevitably collapse.”

A’chago laughs dryly. “I’m fine, thanks,” he says, but his vision swims as he urges his mount to stop. It takes him a second to recover. 

“And I’m a moogle,” Thancred retorts, but he thankfully allows A’chago to continue on his way.

* * *

A’chago has always been like this, for as long as he can remember. Briefly, when he was studying under Fray (himself? His projection of Fray?) he had broken the habit of letting people walk all over him, but he was quickly slipping back into it. He couldn’t really pinpoint when it started up again. Maybe after defeating Zenos. 

A’chago was at his worst during the Ala Mhigan Revolution. He was angry, bitter, violent, and the figurehead of a revolution he didn’t even know existed. Thrown straight from the Dragonsong War into the Resistance without hardly any time to grieve his fiance or his friends or take a breath. He knows he drove people away. He killed indiscriminately. Fought ruthlessly. Disappeared for days at a time. The Resistance praised his valor, but A’chago knows that he was really just taking his anger out on the living things around him. 

He didn’t feel like himself again until he stopped to help people. It’s ironic how the cure to his anger at being used like a weapon was to offer his aid to those in need. 

Helping people grounds him. It reminds him of his adventuring roots, why he wanted to come to Eorzea in the first place. There’s good in the world, and A’chago can add to it by helping others. 

He might be pushing himself a little hard right now. But only because the Exarch sacrificed so much to even bring him here. A’chago can’t help but feel like it’s his own fault that the Scions are stuck here, too. If helping people justifies the massive inconvenience that his mere existence generated, then he’ll do it. No matter what. 

The Nu Mou gleefully thank him for his patronage when he returns to Pla Enni. A’chago kind of relates to them, in a way. He’s pretty desperate to help people right now too.

* * *

“Alright, you’re going back to the Crystarium,” a voice above him says. A’chago groans and throws an arm over his eyes. He was having the most wonderful dream…

Thancred nudges him with his boot. “A’chago. Get up,” he says. “You’ve fallen asleep in a pile of sheep dung.”

A’chago bolts upright. Wool billows up around him. There is no dung to be found. “You asshole,” A’chago grunts. 

“Got you up, didn’t it?” Thancred crosses his arms, clearly pleased with himself. Then his expression sobers. “You need to rest in a proper bed. You’re burning the candle at both ends, and I won’t have Alisaie accuse me of neglecting our Warrior’s needs.”

A’chago is silent. He knows Thancred is right, but he needs to prove that he’s worth it. That he’s the hero this world so desperately needs him to be. He’s trying to live up to the legends that everyone else wrote. 

Thancred sighs, rubs his face, and then plops down next to A’chago. “Come on, A’chago,” he says. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Instead of answering, A’chago lays his head on his knees. He doesn’t want to give voice to his thoughts. Zacelle would want him to try, though, so, “I’m just trying to be good,” he finally replies. He shivers. Sweat beads on his brow. 

“Tell me more,” Thancred presses gently. For all his inability to connect with Minfilia, comforting A’chago is little more than second nature. Besides Alphinaud, Thancred was A’chago’s first real friend in Eorzea. _Not even five years apart could erase that_ , A’chago realizes gratefully. 

Thancred’s still waiting for him to continue. A’chago tries to phrase his next response in the least concerning way possible. “I’m not...the legend,” he eventually says. “I’m just me. I’m not the hero they think I am.” His ears press flat. “But I’m trying to be, I promise, I’m doing my best. It’s my fault that you all are stuck here, this is the least I could do.”

“Oh, you foolish cat,” Thancred admonishes, wrapping an arm around him. “You’re plenty hero enough. Holminster Switch proved that. But you won’t be if you keep running yourself ragged. Come now, we all know that’s my job.”

A’chago giggles at that. His breath feels too hot in his mouth. “A bed sounds really good right now,” he says. 

“And a shower. You’re sweating all over me.”

“Alright, alright, I’m going.” A’chago shakily gets to his feet. Teleporting is hard, but he manages it. As he casts the spell, he fixes a glare on Thancred. “Don’t tell the Exarch.” The last thing A’chago needs is to worry their host, or make him think that A’chago is unfit to defeat the Lightwardens. 

Thancred grins and it looks evil. “No promises.”

The Crystarium is blessedly dark when A’chago returns. The night sky is soothing for his headache and easy on the eyes. A’chago sniffs through his clogged nose and shivers as the cool night air settles in his bones. The strain of teleporting made him feel ten times worse. 

Nobody bothers him as he makes his way to the Pendants, thankfully. In fact, they seem to give him a wide berth. He wonders if he’s that obviously sick. His vision swims again and he stumbles. _Oh, yeah. I’m definitely that sick._

Getting up the stairs is surprisingly difficult. A’chago doesn’t fall, though, he catches himself before he goes tumbling down. The Manager of Suites looks appalled at his state. 

“By the night, sir, are you feeling well?”

A’chago waves a dismissive hand. “‘S fine,” he slurs. “Doin’. Doin’ great. Which? Way to my room?” His eyes are seeing things, but he doesn’t comprehend them. It takes extra focus to make things make sense. 

The elf gives him his key quickly and A’chago shambles off in what he hopes is the correct direction. He hears no critiques from the Manager, so he assumes he’s alright. 

Finally, finally, finally he’s back at his room. A’chago leans against the wall to support himself and fumbles with the keyhole. The door gives way under his weight once it’s unlocked. A’chago almost falls, but manages to right himself. He’s so focused on getting into bed that he doesn’t even notice the black and white robes in his field of vision. 

“Welcome back,” the Exarch says sternly. “I heard you kept yourself busy in the faerie kingdom.” 

A’chago doesn’t register what he says for a few seconds, swaying and trying to make his brain recognize the person in front of him. “Exarch?” He asks dumbly. 

The Exarch huffs and taps his foot. “In the flesh. Thancred alerted me that you may be returning in a vulnerable state and requested that I see to your aid as needed.”

“That bastard,” A’chago mumbles. He tries to take a step, but his body moves before his feet do and he tips forward. 

The Exarch is there in an instant, gripping his biceps and holding him up. “Alright, bed. Now.” He slings A’chago’s arm over his shoulders and walks them up the step to A’chago’s bed. He then gently tries to deposit him, but A’chago whines and uses his other arm to cling to the Exarch. 

“No,” A’chago says petulantly. “‘M fine. Not tired.” 

A huff. “You’re running a fever. You need to rest.” 

A’chago blinks, tries to focus, fails. He lets go of the Exarch and flops back on the bed. “‘S blurry,” he says. 

“Tends to happen when you _overwork yourself_.” 

He cracks an eye open and grins. “You speakin’ from experience?”

The Exarch looks incredibly affronted. “I-you-go to sleep!”

A’chago hums and rolls over. Sleep, for once, does not elude him.

* * *

He’s fighting a sin eater with Zenos’s face, and he’s losing. There must be some kind of Ascian enhancement, or Garlean magitek fuckery, because A’chago _knows_ he’s not weak. His limbs don’t respond fast enough. His greatsword is too heavy. The sin eater swipes one massive clawed hand across his chest, slashing him open and causing all his entrails to spill out. He vomits blood. He drops his sword to clutch at his guts and force them back into his body, but they’re too slippery. He moans. 

Zenos flickers, and his misshapen jaw and Philia’s thick, purple tongue unfurls around Ilberd’s voice. “Sloppy,” the sin eater chastises, and then the scene changes. 

Now he’s underwater. The Fuath are peering at him and laughing. He lashes out, but they evade his attacks easily. They pull at his hair, his clothes, they won’t stop _touching_ him, and even with the Kojin’s blessing he feels like he can’t breathe-

The world spits him out onto the red beaches of Thavnair. A’chago gasps and coughs up half the ocean. Somebody kneels next to him. When he looks up, they’re silhouetted by the midday sun and he can’t make out any features besides curly hair and a slight, but muscular build. Mesca. 

His twin sister looks at him in the careful sort of way she inherited from their mother, like she’s not sure if she should scold him or hug him. It’s been eight years since he’s last seen her, so she looks like she did when she was nineteen. She should be twenty-seven now. As if in response to his thoughts, her form changes: her hair grows out, her eyes look older, her body a little tougher. A’chago wonders what he would look like if he never took that age-slowing potion the Scions offered him. 

Mesca speaks without opening her mouth. “You’re dreaming.” 

A’chago rubs his face. “Figured.” 

His sister tilts her head to look behind him. “And you’re scaring him.” 

He turns to see who she’s referring to, but there’s nobody there. When he turns back, she’s gone. The sand starts to shift beneath him. He sinks into darkness.

* * *

When A’chago wakes up, he’s drenched in sweat. The light linen shirt and pants he’s wearing are thoroughly soaked. He wasn’t wearing them when he fell asleep. A’chago sits upright, tries to quell the panic rising in his chest. Who undressed him? Why? What did they do while he was sleeping? His head pounds, his skin is still feverishly hot.

He throws off the covers and swings himself out of bed, only to collapse when his legs give way underneath him. Instantly, there’s another person next to him, hooking their arms underneath him and pulling him up. He lashes out without thinking. 

He’s lucky: he manages to thwack his would-be attacker in the face, and they let out a pained yelp. He’s shoved onto the bed. A’chago shoves back at whoever shoved him. 

“Would you-stop that! Would you please sit still!”

The Exarch. A’chago’s vision focuses on the figure holding him at bay, one hand cradling their bloody nose, the other planted squarely on his chest to keep him from getting up. 

“Exarch,” he says. 

Somehow the man looks frustrated even with half his face hidden. “Who _else_?” 

A’chago sobers quickly. “Did I hurt you?” 

“Yes, but it was my fault for approaching a soldier without alerting him to my presence.” The Exarch sniffs and wipes more blood on the back of his crystal hand. “You pack quite the punch. I’m not surprised that those are the hands that have felled gods.” 

For some reason, this makes A’chago blush deeply. He blames it on the fever.

The Exarch removes his hand from A’chago’s chest once he’s satisfied that A’chago isn’t going anywhere, then dusts himself off. “Now, will you please sit and rest? I’d say you need to gain your strength back, but you’ve proved that that isn’t necessary. However, you were asleep for several days, so it would be remiss of you not to recuperate fully.” His voice is pinched with something that might be worry...or wishful thinking on A’chago’s part.

Wait. Days? A’chago’s head spins. There’s so many questions he needs to ask. He collects his thoughts while he watches the Exarch wash his hands in the sink. There’s a pot simmering away on the stove beside him, and A’chago becomes acutely aware of how ravenous he is. 

Food later. Answers first. “Who undressed me?” he asks. 

“Thancred,” The Exarch answers easily. “The Scions and I have been taking turns nursing you back to health, once it became apparent that you were going to be under the weather for quite some time.” 

“How long is ‘quite some time’?”

The Exarch turns to him and folds his arms. “Four days. Exactly what were you thinking? You’re lucky you turned up when you did. Chessamile said that if the sickness had been allowed to spread, you might’ve been permanently weakened.” 

Even though A’chago knows the Exarch is probably only worried because an incapacitated hero can’t save the world, he feels like the man is genuinely worried for him. Warmth spreads through his chest-not the fever kind. “You sound like Alisaie,” he complains. “I just wanted to offer my services as the Savior of the Whole Damn Universe.” 

“Two worlds do not constitute the universe, and just because you _can_ , doesn’t mean you _should_.” The Exarch’s voice softens. “I promise you, you’re doing enough simply by being here. I would never be able to forgive myself if something were to happen to you.” 

A’chago’s ears fold back and his face burns. He looks down at his folded hands to hide his expression. He has never been one to shy away from casual affection, but the way the Exarch does it is downright intimate. Sometimes he says things with such naked adoration that A’chago’s whole body seizes up. 

The Exarch mistakes his embarrassment as shame. “It’s true. You brought the night back to Lakeland. The _night_. You are the Warrior of Darkness.” 

“I’m just a man,” A’chago mumbles. He doesn’t feel like the Warrior of Darkness. He doesn’t even know how he does half the shit he does. Take away the crystals of light and Hydaelyn’s blessing and he’ll be just as vulnerable as every other adventurer. Maybe more so, thanks to being a complete headcase. 

The Exarch appears in front of him with a bowl of soup. “You’re just a man,’ he agrees, “But an amazing one. One loved by _all_ , so do us a favor and stop working yourself to death.” 

“You’re one to talk,” A’chago mutters, but he takes the soup gratefully. He raises the spoon to his lips, his stomach grumbles in anticipation, but then he...stops. He can’t finish the action. _The soup isn’t fucking poisoned, you idiot,_ he tries to tell himself, but his shit brain refuses to get the message. 

“Something the matter?” the Exarch asks. 

A’chago is saved from answering by someone knocking on the door. The Exarch goes to open it. He can’t see what’s going on from the bed, but he can hear Alisaie’s tight, sharp voice. 

“Is he awake?”

“Yes, he woke just a few minutes ago.”

“You should have called us. What happened to your face?” 

“I apologize. It slipped my mind. He was disoriented when he woke up. It took a minute to calm him down.”

“Which is why you should have _called us_ -” 

A’chago pulls the bedsheet around his shoulders and shuffles toward the door before they can escalate into a full blown argument. “Hey, Alisaie,” he greets her. 

Immediately, she settles down. “A’chago! Thank the twelve you’re alright.” 

A’chago smiles tiredly. “I punched him in the face,” he says, gesturing to the Exarch. “On accident.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she replies fondly. Turning back to the Exarch, she holds out a bottle. “This is the next dose from Chessamile. I will let the others know that he’s woken up, and-” she glances at A’chago, “-tell them that he is not up for visitors at the moment.” 

“Thank you,” the Exarch says. A’chago tunes out the rest of the conversation and focuses on standing upright. He’s much more tired than he anticipated. Eventually, fatigue gets the better of him and he starts to sag against the Exarch’s shoulder. The Exarch unthinkingly wraps an arm around him to keep him upright. 

Alisaie blinks, but doesn’t comment. Instead, she says, “Urianger got tied up in some pixie business. He’s going to be a few minutes late to his shift. If it’s an issue, I can take over now.”

“No, no issue at all,” the Exarch responds amicably. “Thank you again, Alisaie.” 

She looks at A’chago. “I’ve never seen you sick,” she states, “I never would have guessed that you get so...cuddly.” 

A’chago is too tired to be embarrassed. He yawns, throws up a peace sign, and tries to keep his feet underneath him. 

“Well! I’ll be off, then. Take care of our idiot, Exarch.”

“Hey,” A’chago exclaims.

“I will,” the Exarch promises, closing the door. “All right, back to bed with you,” he tells A’chago, gently walking him back. 

“You seem to be developing a habit of getting me in bed,” A’chago flirts. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” the Exarch grunts as he tries to convince A’chago to lay down. “You won’t even remember this tomorrow.”

A’chago thinks about it for a second. “Yeah, probably not,” he acquiesces. “What’s that saying? The nights we don’t remember are the nights we’ll never forget?”

“I preferred you when you weren’t talking,” the Exarch retorts. 

The way they slip into banter is easy, familiar. A’chago drifts off to sleep smiling.

* * *

The next day is a blur of Urianger reading him passages from an old book about Pixie-Elven relations in the time before the Flood. A’chago can barely stay conscious long enough to comment on how boring it all sounds. At one point, he wakes to what he thinks is Alisaie and the Exarch arguing again. 

“I was scared,” the Exarch says. “He was crying in his sleep.” 

“Nightmares,” Alisaie replies, but doesn’t explain further. “Sometimes he doesn’t know where he is when he wakes. You have to be careful.”

“Evidently.”

_Stop talking about me,_ A’chago thinks furiously, but sleep takes him before he can voice it. 

He’s dreaming again. This time, he’s standing in a field of flowers that sway in the breeze. Everywhere he looks is a sea of pink, blue, and green. In the center of it all stands the Exarch. He turns to look at A’chago, then smiles and offers a hand. 

Someone in the waking world pushes a spoon to his mouth. A’chago whines and rolls away from it. 

“Pray, beest not afraid. ‘Tis not poisoned. Prithee, consume it and regain thy strength.”

A’chago trusts Urianger. He still doesn’t eat.

* * *

“He’s not eating. Why isn’t he eating, Alphinaud?”

“I don’t know.”

“How is he going to get better if he won’t eat?”

“I don’t know!”

_Sorry,_ A’chago thinks.

* * *

Rustling fabric. Bitter medicine. Light behind his eyelids. A’chago winces, and burrows further into the blankets, only to find himself sweltering in the heat. He throws the sheets off, then starts shivering. 

“Has’t thee ever seen him so sick before?”

“No. I thought the blessing protected him from these things.” 

“Hmm.”

Someone covers him up again. A’chago is offered water, he drinks readily. Water is fine. Water is safe.

* * *

A’chago wakes up to the sound of rain. The first thing he thinks is that the window was open, because he’s laying in a puddle. 

Sitting up makes the bedding underneath him squish uncomfortably, so he winces and gingerly gets out of bed. His clothes stick to his body. His mind is clear, so he reckons he must have finally sweated the fever out. 

Without checking to see if he’s alone, A’chago peels off his shirt and pants to take a shower in the ensuite bathroom. He grabs a towel from the dirty laundry pile, takes an experimental sniff, and decides it’s good enough for his purposes. He turns around and comes face to face with the Exarch, who’s frozen in place across the room at the kitchen table. 

A beat of silence. 

“Fucking hell, Exarch!” A’chago shouts, shoving the towel in front of him. 

The Exarch drops the knife he’s holding and both hands fly up to cover his face. “Forgive me!” 

A’chago dives into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. After a moment of collecting himself, he starts to laugh. He can’t help it. “Are-are you okay?” he calls through the door. 

The Exarch makes a strangled noise. “Take your shower!”

The hot water is a blessing and a curse. A’chago scrubs about a week of grime and sweat off his body. He realizes that he’s parched about halfway through when a dizzy spell threatens to overtake him, so he ends up mouth open underneath the spray, guzzling water down as fast as he can. After he finishes, he takes a look in the mirror and grimaces. There’s a decent amount of stubble growing on his face, patchy as always. His dad has a thick, trimmed beard but anything A’chago tries to grow ends up looking like mange. He grabs his razor off the sink and gets to work taming the beast. 

When he reemerges from the bathroom, the Exarch is setting the table for breakfast. There’s a basket of fruit, scrambled eggs, and sausage links. A’chago gets dressed, sits down, and grabs an unpeeled fruit: it seems safe enough. 

“So,” he says, popping a segment into his mouth. It doesn’t taste like an orange, it’s much more bitter and vaguely earthy. He must make a face because the Exarch looks at him and chuckles. 

“That’s a Lakeland blood citrus. We usually infuse water with them, not eat them whole…” the Exarch serves himself some eggs, but doesn’t move to serve A’chago. A’chago waits until the Exarch has eaten first before serving himself. 

The Exarch sets his fork down. “My friend, I must apologize.”

“For just now? Oh, it’s fine, I was just surprised.”

What little skin A’chago can see flushes pink. “Still, I should have alerted you to my presence.” 

A’chago’s stomach flips awkwardly. Suddenly, he blurts, “It’s okay because it’s you.” Then he mentally kicks himself. 

The Exarch bites his cheek, but lets it go. “Very well then. How are you feeling?”

“Much better.” He takes a bite of egg and his eyes go wide. “Halone, this is good. What’s in this?”

“Lava peppers from Amh Araeng. Alisaie informed me of your proclivity toward spice,” the Exarch preens under the praise. 

They finish breakfast in relative silence. A’chago attempts to help the Exarch with the dishes, but he shoos him away, citing bedrest. A’chago busies himself with changing the sheets instead. Once he’s done, he watches the Exarch putter around the kitchen from a cozy cocoon. He decides he’s bored. 

“Hey, Exarch,” he calls. “Come tend to me. I’m weak and sickly.” 

The Exarch looks over his shoulder. “Clearly not so weak you can’t boss me around,” he gripes. 

“No, I’m dying,” A’chago whines. “I need care.” He flops over onto his side and moans pathetically. “The sickness...overtaking me…”

“What is this? Just seconds ago you were fine,” the Exarch exclaims, gingerly sitting on the bed as if he isn’t sure he belongs there. 

That wouldn’t do. A’chago harrumphs and wiggles closer. “Bedrest is boring. Tell me stories,” he demands. 

The Exarch looks at the clock. “You have about half a bell before Thancred takes over,” he says. “What do you wish to hear of?”

“Hm. You. Your adventures,” A’chago decides. 

“Well, alright, although I must admit they’re not nearly as exciting as yours. Nevertheless, listen closely as I tell you the tale of Hrodwyn Warf, the Skybreaker.

Our tale begins with me, about one hundred years younger, having just assumed my role as the Tower’s keeper. You see, when I inherited the Tower, there were a fair amount of beasts who had deigned to make this place their home. Nigh constantly was I battling all manner of creatures, many of which I had never seen before. 

I was sitting outside the Tower, utterly miserable and cursing my fate, when a hume chanced upon me and thought to offer her aid. Upon her back she carried a gunblade similar to what Thancred uses, and woven in her night-dark hair were green and gold feathers from Rak’tika that gleamed in the eternal Light. I told her of my predicament, and she laughed and said she’d take care of it.” 

The lilt of his voice is making A’chago drift off. He thought he was being sneaky about it, but…

“And I fell in love with her and within the year Lyna was born,” the Exarch deadpans. 

A’chago shoots up. “ _What_.” 

The Exarch looks down at him, but his gaze is still enshrouded in his hood. “Hrodwyn and I engaged in a marvelous night of copulation, after which I laid the egg that Lyna hatched from.” 

It was so out of character for the normally stoic Exarch that A’chago couldn’t help but burst into laughter. He falls over onto his side, wheezing. He only notices that he fell into the Exarch’s lap when the man brushes his hair out of his face. A’chago composes himself. 

He shouldn’t be doing this. He and the Exarch are barely friends. They’ve only met a month prior. 

But...it doesn’t feel weird. In fact, it feels wonderful. The Exarch keeps stroking his head gently, and A’chago decides not to make it weird. _It’s not any different from sharing stories in the Exarch’s quarters_ , he tells himself. _Just act normal._

“So, Hrodwyn,” he says. “A former flame?”

The Exarch snorts. “No, if it was gossip you were hoping for then this is the wrong story. She helped me clear the Tower of the remaining monsters and helped draft the concepts for this city afterward. She was a dear friend and a valuable ally, but not my type.”

A’chago squirms around until he’s comfortable. The Exarch pauses his ministrations long enough to let him. “Your type?” A’chago grins cheekily. “Wait, let me guess. Black hair, skin the color of wet sand, eyes the color of dehydrated piss, short as hell, one lonely nipple-”

The Exarch shoves him off the bed. “Wait, one nipple?”

The blanket cocoon cushions A’chago’s fall, but traps him when he tries to stand. He finally does, and brushes himself off. “Yes,” he answers, “Nidhoog took the damn thing off when he was trying to kill me. Wanna see the scar?”

“Actually, yes.” The Exarch looks mildly disturbed. 

A’chago unbuttons his top and pulls it to the side to expose the nasty scar crossing his right pectoral. Three deep claw marks gouge the skin, the middle one covering where his nipple would be if the scar tissue didn’t completely encompass it. 

The Exarch looks stunned. “I was certain you were lying.”

“Nope! According to Aymeric, it was hanging on by a thread so they just decided to do away with it.” 

“That’s horrible. Wicked white, that looks like it was painful.” The Exarch starts to reach out with his non-crystal hand, which of course is the exact moment Thancred walks in to change shifts. 

Everyone freezes. 

“Right,” Thancred says, recovering first, “I’m just going to-”

“This isn’t what it looks like,” the Exarch tries to explain.

“What are you talking about? This is exactly what it looks like,” A’chago insists. “Thancred, come look at my fucked up nipple.” 

Thancred groans, but makes his way over anyway. “I take it you’re feeling better?”

A’chago nods, and points to his chest with his free hand. Thancred grimaces. 

“A’chago, I’ve _seen_ your chest before. I don’t need to look.”

The Exarch stands up hurriedly and adjusts his robes. “Well! Thank you, Thancred. I really must be going now. There’s leftover soup in the refrigerator. I shall see you both later.” He hastily makes his exit.

A’chago watches him go in silence, then lets his shirt go to cover his face and moan. He sinks to the ground. 

Thancred callously observes him melt into a puddle with one eyebrow raised. 

“I have to die now,” A’chago says from the ground. “I want to kill myself. Why in all seven hells did I show him my _Nidhogg Nipple_ -”

“Don’t call it that,” Thancred says while making a face. “But you’re right, I have no idea what I walked into.”

A’chago rolls onto his side. “I probably scared him away for life. He’s probably wondering why the Warrior of Light is such a horrible, pathetic, embarrassment-”

“Oh, cheer up. I’m sure he already knows that.” 

A’chago looks at him with enough disgust to make a lesser man cower. Thancred doesn’t flinch. 

“Alisaie was here for an entire year before you arrived,” Thancred offers by way of explanation. A’chago just makes a pained whimper in response. 

“I said I wasn’t going to make it weird. Then I _made it weird_ ,” he mutters. 

Thancred leans against the wall. “What were you trying to do?”

“He was-he was being nice, and stroking my hair, and I just. I panicked.” 

“You panicked. And that somehow leads to showing him your Nidhogg Nipple.”

“I _panicked_ ,” A’chago wails. 

Thancred rubs his hand over his face. “Why don’t you take your medicine, and then I can tell you how to seduce people without terrifying them,” he says tiredly. 

A’chago grumbles, but climbs back on the bed and dutifully takes the potion Thancred offers him. “Wasn’t trying to seduce him,” he complains, handing the empty bottle back to Thancred. 

“You’re right. If you were, you wouldn’t have been that horrible at it. You must actually fancy him,” Thancred observes. 

Silence. A’chago bites his lip and doesn’t answer. 

“Oh. Twelve, you do.” 

“Don’t tell anyone,” A’chago begs. 

“How long?” Thancred asks, grinning. 

Another pause. A’chago thinks back to the day when he first realized he was well and truly fucked. 

He’d been intrigued after Holminster, a little turned on by the confrontation with Ranjit in the Ocular, but no-the day that A’chago realized he was attracted to the Exarch was when the man rallied the Crystarium in Minfilia’s defense. He had given a rousing speech, but then ultimately left the decision to the Crystarium’s people, and A’chago had realized then and there that he was hopelessly enamored with the man. Seeing his devotion to his people and their devotion to him _stirred_ something in A’chago, and he’s been enthralled ever since. 

_Ever since_ he scoffs to himself. _It’s been, like, three weeks. Get a hold of yourself._

“Since before Laxan Loft,” A’chago answers. “He made a speech. It was very profound.”

“You did always have a weakness for well-spoken men,” Thancred teases. 

A’chago throws himself face first on the bed and screams.


End file.
